Cliche
by Muses' Advocate
Summary: Whatever will our dearest Greenleaf squared do when he wakes up ina strange village with his hairbrush gone, his hunky-wunky Ranger at a shady celebration known only as his "coronation", and A mere mortal laughing at him? Rated for implied slash and stupi


Disclaimer: I do not own Legolas, his braids, or his hairbrush; I do not own Larry the Cucumber; I do not own Boromir; I DO own Lord of the Rings. Right. And I'm also the Sugar Plum Fairy. So please, don't sue me.  
  
A/N: Don't take offense. Please. I personally don't like Legolas all too much, and am so incredibly bored with all of the Legolas-is-the-beautiful- OoC-hero stories. I'm not saying they're all bad, I'm just saying I'm sick of them. If you're like me in this respect... enjoy.  
  
It was morning. A beautifully clichéd, shiny, sparkly pretty morning. 'A morning made for pretty people like me!' thought Legolas the Elf as he stretched luxuriously. 'Hmm, where am I, anyway?' he thought to himself. Not that it mattered; so long as he could brush out his lovely locks every day at waking he would be fine...  
  
But where was his brush? Oh horrors of horrors! Had he so insulted Eru that his beautiful, most loyal brush had been so cruelly taken? And then, in this unfamiliar, desolate place, Legolas began to cry in the most clichéd way he could possibly muster.  
  
Just then a human walked by. Seeing the clichéd Elf in distress, she came closer. And then she extended her finger and began to...laugh? Yes, she was indeed laughing at the Elf-boy. This infuriated Legolas. No human had ever dared interrupt his cliché moments! How dare she! He looked up, a clichéd tear trailing from his clichéd crystal blue eyes and over his equally clichéd porcelain cheek. 'W-why must you disrupt me?' he asked, making big, sad, puppy eyes.  
  
But the girl didn(t stop. In fact, she laughed harder. Legolas began to feel something strange happening. He didn't...for once in his life he did not feel pretty. 'Ai lissi Eru! How dare you spoil my clichéd good looks!?!' Slowly, his face flushed and then his veins began to throb and his hair popped out of its sleek braids...you know, the really clichéd angry thing.  
  
Finally, the human's laughter subsided and she wiped tears from her eyes. Still chuckling quietly, she left the Elf alone with his unkempt hair. 'Oh, what have I done?' the Elf-prince wailed miserably. 'Now my hair has been mussed AND I can(t find my hairbrush!' As he lamented, an animated cucumber, in true cliché fashion, came out of nowhere and began to sing.  
  
'Oh where is my hairbrush? Oh wheerrree is my hairbrush? Oh where oh where oh where oh where oh where oh wheerrree...is my hairbrush?' Legolas threw a rock- a very pretty, nice, round, sparkly rock- at it. Because most everything in here is a cliché, the pebble hit the cucumber square in the nose. Which really didn't exist, because Larry was just an animation. But back to the story. 'Shut up, you,' he said huffily, 'the loss of one(s hairbrush is not to be taken lightly!' Thus exited the singing cucumber.  
  
Following true cliché format, a big, tall, manly man enters from stage left to comfort the crying Elf. 'What(s wrong, my ickle sticky bun?' 'The big scary ugly human girl laughed at me!' Leggy wailed. 'Ooh, what a meanie! Does Leggy-weggy need a hug?' Legolas reached his arms up for a bear hug without opening his eyes (he was very busy looking pouty and clichéd, after all). Suddenly, he realized this wasn(t his manly man, he was hugging someone else entirely. It was...it was...  
  
'ACK!' Legolas screamed girlishly, unwrapping his arms from Boromir. 'You...you tried to trick me! You tried to make me believe you were Arago-o- o-orn...' Legolas was both wailing and flailing now, a feat nearly un- accomplishable by any save the very boldest femme. Of course, this was just another cliché, so that doesn(t really matter. As he was in a very cliché-able mood that day, he also bit Boromir(s big toe. Then he realized that wasn(t a cliché and curled up on the ground. By now a large group of people had gathered, all laughing. Legolas writhed on the ground, his clichéd sobbing punctuated by over-exaggerated clichéd hiccups. Boromir walked away mumbling incoherently, obviously quite disgruntled.  
  
Legolas had stopped sniffling miserably for a moment (after all, he wouldn(t want to ruin his clichéd perfect complexion) to look up. A short, squat figure was striding towards him. 'Go away!' he puffed. 'You(re not pretty enough to be in my company!' He turned up his nose at Merry, who was currently rolling his eyes and trying not to kill something.  
  
'Legolas,' Merry said, punching the Elf(s shoulder none too softly. 'Get up, would you? Strider(s coronation is in an hour.' Legolas frowned as cutely as he possibly could. Coronation was such a big word And Strider...Oh! He must mean Aragorn! Legolas smiled as he thought of his hunky-wunky Ranger. 'Of course!' he beamed to the Halfling, all traces of tears gone and replaced by a sunny- if not vacant- smile. Even his braids had begun to quietly resume their former positions. 'of course I'll come to Aiwie's cor...coro...coron...coroner!' 


End file.
